Adventures in Faerie
by BlueVase
Summary: When Angela starts her 'fairies live in our garden' phase, Patrick discovers more about Shelagh's childhood, and decides to do something special for her. TW: none, I think, though this story does veer into the realm of the uncanny in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**A multi-chapter fic, guys! It is happening! Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing, as usual ;).**

Patrick found Angela in the garden, giggling and running around the small fruit tree that grew in the corner.

"There's my darling girl!" he said, putting his bag down on the wet grass and sweeping her up in his arms, peppering her wind-reddened face with kisses.

She squealed, trying to push his stubbled face away. "Daddy, you tickle!"

"I am a hedgehog, and I'm going to take you with me to live with me in my house," he said, kissing her soft cheeks before hugging her tight to him. Something in the pockets of her little red coat crunched and crackled like wrapping paper as he did so.

"I'd rather stay with Mummy and Timothy and Teddy," Angela decided, blue eyes huge and very serious. She took his face between her hands and kissed the tip of his nose. "Your nose is red," she noted.

"That is because it is cold, Angel girl. Speaking of which: why are you out here, in the garden?" He balanced her on his right arm so he could pick his bag up.

"Mummy made biscuits," Angela told him. She pulled a bit of biscuit from her coat. "Oh, they're all broken now!"

"How many did you take with you?" Patrick asked, nudging the front door open with his hip and sighing as he stepped out of the cold.

"Five."

"Now, Angela, I don't think Mummy likes it much if you take so many biscuits. You'll spoil your appetite."

"They're not for me, Daddy," Angela said, rolling her eyes.

"No?" Patrick put her down on one of the steps of the stairs, put his bag safely out of the way of little children's hands, then knelt in front of her so he could help her get her boots off.

"They're for the fairies," Angela explained, pulling off her cap and mittens.

"The fairies?"

"They live in our garden. Mummy says I must be very polite when I go and visit them. She says I shouldn't eat their food or drink anything, so I brought my own biscuits. She says it is good manners to give them food, so I took five biscuits. Do you think five is enough?" Her face was the picture of seriousness.

"I don't know. Does Mummy say five is enough?" Patrick asked, unbuttoning her coat.

"Yes. She says there were fairies in Scotland, too. Can I go now?"

"Hop along," Patrick decided, digging through Angela's pockets to get the pieces of biscuit out. They were still warm; the chocolate chips left brown smears on his fingers. He wrapped them in his handkerchief and placed them next to his bag, intending to eat them later.

His heart beat slowly in his chest, full of tenderness for his wife and daughter. He hadn't known Shelagh told fairy stories to Angela. She read their little girl stories before bed, but he had been pretty sure that those stories were limited to _Winnie the Pooh_ and _The Flopsy Bunnies._

"Patrick?" As if she'd heard him thinking about her Shelagh stepped into the hallway. Her hair was loose, glowing like honey in the orange light of the lamp above them. She wore a cardigan that was slightly too big, the sleeves long enough for her to pull the fabric over her cold hands. Though spring was on its way, the weather was still freezing, the wind cruel like a whip, stinging and lashing.

"Hello, dear," he said, pulling her into his arms, kissing her pliant lips and smelling her shampoo.

"I thought I heard you come in," she sighed, snaking her arms around him and placing her ear over his heart, content to stand enveloped in his warmth.

"How was your day?" he asked, kissing her forehead and taking her hand, pulling her with him into the living room, out of the cold of the hallway.

"Teddy was a bit fussy, I'm afraid. He's asleep now; poor dear must have been feeling terribly out of sorts because of his cold." She sighed, and rubbed her eyes.

"But I helped!" Angela piped up, tearing her gaze away from the piece of paper she had put on the dining room table.

"Yes, you did," Shelagh smiled.

"You baked, Angela told me," Patrick started. He wanted to ask her about the fairies, about Scotland, but before he could the piercing voice of the telephone rang through the house.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath.

"No rest for the wicked, hm darling?" Shelagh sighed, squeezing his hand.

Patrick hurried to the phone before the insistent ringing would wake Teddy. "No rest for the wicked, indeed," he muttered as he picked up the horn.

All thoughts of fairies and offerings and biscuits were pressed to the back of his mind for the next few hours. The birth he had to attend was hectic and stressful, with the mother haemorrhaging and losing so much blood that the bedsheets were more red than white when the ambulance finally arrived.

Tiredness had nestled itself in his bones and mewled pitifully when Patrick finally parked the car in front of his home, the feeling so strong it could only compete with his hunger. He hadn't felt either of them during the labour, but now they clamoured for his attention, leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

Patrick rubbed his eyes and sighed, staring at the raindrops breaking themselves on the windshield. He had to get up, take his bag and umbrella and go inside.

Part of him wanted nothing more than wash his hands, eat the sandwiches Shelagh undoubtedly had prepared for him, then wash the filth from his body before dressing in fresh pyjamas and sliding underneath the sheets. He wanted his wife near him, wanted to snuggle up to her and place his arms around her, hands splayed on her belly, or her breasts. He wanted her comforting scent, the steady fall and rise of her chest as she slept.

Another part wanted to stay here and look at the rain, letting it hypnotise him till he forgot that the dark half-moons of filth under his nails were crusted blood, the scent of it still thick in his nose. He imagined he could taste it, like pennies on his tongue.

Patrick shivered, then rubbed his eyes again. He needed Shelagh.

He took his bag and umbrella, closed the car door, and made for the backdoor. Experience had taught him that he was least likely to wake the children if he went through the garden, their bedrooms all facing the street side. Teddy's cot was in Patrick's and Shelagh's bedroom, but the baby would probably sleep like a rock, only waking when he wanted to be fed, especially now he had been so fussy today.

The grass was wet and slippery. A branch brushed his face, allowing raindrops to slide down his cheeks like tears. He shivered, huddling in his coat.

It was then that Patrick saw the figure move.

It stood at the back of the yard, near the apple tree. Clouds obscured the moon and stars, so Patrick had very little to go on, but he was sure it was human.

Fatigue and hunger were forgotten as another burst of adrenaline sizzled through his veins. He shut his umbrella, army combat training demanding he use it as a weapon.

"What are you doing?" he roared when he was only a few paces away, close enough to smack the person over the head with the umbrella as they whipped around. He clutched the wooden handle with such force that his knuckles turned white, had the umbrella raised, would have struck, if the ensuing shriek had not been so familiar.

"Shelagh?"

She cradled a plate with soggy biscuits against her dark rain coat, eyes huge, though if that was from fright or because she couldn't focus on him properly without glasses he couldn't say.

"Patrick! You scared the daylights out of me," she exclaimed, voice high and cheeks flushing. She looked at the umbrella and frowned. "Were you going to hit me with that?"

"I thought you were a burglar."

"Well, I'm not, so maybe put it down before you poke somebody's eyes out," she noted curtly, hand holding the plate with baked goods trembling.

Patrick lowered it gingerly, heart still thundering in his chest. "What are you doing in the middle of the night in our garden, you silly woman? Do you want to catch your death out here?"

"Of course not! Angela left a plate with biscuits out for the fairies, and I…"

Before she could finish her sentence Timothy burst from the house, cricket bat raised above his head. He slipped on the grass and nearly fell, sliding the last few metres towards his mother. "What's wrong?" he asked, face a contorted mask of determination as he used his bat to right himself. "I heard screaming."

"Your Mum thought she saw someone in the garden," Patrick noted, wiping the rain from his eyes with the back of his hand. He didn't like lying much, but he couldn't very well tell his son that he'd been about to whack his mother over the head with a wet umbrella because he mistook her for a burglar. The adrenaline was leaving his system besides, and he started to feel tired again, drained and scared.

"And you went out to check all by yourself?" Timothy asked, frowning so hard that it almost appeared as if he had one huge eyebrow instead of two.

"I'm a big girl, Timothy," Shelagh said.

"And you decided to face whoever was out there with a plate of biscuits? Have you gone mad, Mum?"

"Well, I…" Shelagh started.

"What were you going to do? Ask them for tea and hope that those inferior biscuits would scare them off?"

"That's enough, Tim," Patrick barked.

Timothy lowered his eyes and mumbled his apologies.

"Let's go inside before we all catch pneumonia," Shelagh decided, taking Patrick's bag from him and stepping towards the back door. "And I think it very brave of you to come to my aid, Timothy dearest," she told their son, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. He rubbed it and rolled his eyes, but Patrick noted the soft smile playing around his mouth, and knew Timothy was secretly mighty pleased with himself.

It took half an hour for Patrick to get ready for bed.

Shelagh slipped in next to him and sighed, curling up against him.

He tucked her under his arm, her head on his chest, and pressed his nose against her damp hair. He wanted to drift asleep with her in his arms, wanted her weight and scent and her love to calm him.

"Angela is asleep again, poor dear. All that shouting gave her quite a fright," Shelagh murmured.

"I understand," Patrick said, stroking her side with his fingers, revelling in her warmth and the soft purr of contentment she emitted as his fingertips caressed the swell of her breast.

"Shelagh?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"What is all this about fairies?"

She propped herself up on her elbows, eyes still huge as she tried to read his face in the darkness. "Fairies?"

"Angela told me there are fairies in our garden. She says you told her about it."

Shelagh looked at him through her lashes and bit her lip, a sure sign that she was nervous. "Oh, Patrick, you'll just think me silly. Besides, you must be exhausted. Wouldn't it be better to have this conversation in the morning?"

He shook his head. It would be better to have her talk to him now, for her lilting voice to draw him away from the memories of blood and screaming.

She looked at his eyes, and he knew she could read his horror there. She took his hand, intertwined her fingers with hers, kissed the pads of his fingers to ground him, to let him know that he was here now, in their bedroom, and not somewhere else, somewhere in the past. "You know my mother died when I was young," she started.

He nodded, kissing her hand as she continued talking.

"I was often alone as a child, Patrick. I would stay in my father's shop if I got home from school, so he could keep an eye on me. He didn't want me to come home to an empty house. There were customers there, of course, and I talked to them a little, but there were no children to play with. There was a garden behind the shop that we used for storing empty crates, though. Wild grass grew there, and brambles, and a tree all twisted and bent like an old woman. I'd sit there and do my homework if I had to concentrate. There was a fairy ring around that tree in autumn. I imagined it was a portal that could transport me to a Seelie court of fairies. I told my father stories about them. I'd given all the fairies names, and could describe everything they did." Shelagh smiled at the memory, eyes moist. "I was an imaginative child, dearest, so when Angela told me she saw little men in the apple tree, I told her they must have been fairies. I thought it was endearing."

"And the plate with biscuits?"

"I used to leave biscuits or crusts of bread out for the fairies when I was little. It is only polite to offer them some baked goods. I told Angela to do the same." Shelagh placed her head back on his chest and sighed. Her breath was hot on his skin, tingling his nerves. "I came to look if they were gone already," she murmured, sleep overtaking her.

Patrick couldn't sleep for a very long time, though.

Exactly how lonely had his Shelagh been as a child? How lonely did a child have to be before making up imaginary creatures to befriend?

He held her very tight that night, kissing her hair and forehead every now and then. She smiled in her sleep, snuggling closer to him and sighing against his throat.

"You'll never have to be alone again," he murmured, causing her to mumble something incomprehensible as his breath ghosted over the pink shell of her ear. "I promise."

He would show her just how much she was loved.


	2. Chapter 2

**The second chapter! I hope it isn't too contemplation-heavy. The plot will advance a lot in the next chapter, I promise ;). Thanks to purple-words-roses-and-love for betaing.**

Shelagh came awake because Teddy had started mewling.

Patrick's arm was slung over her belly. He was heavy, warm, anchoring her to the bed. She gently moved his arm to the empty space between them so she could pick Teddy up and feed him before he woke properly and started hollering for his breakfast. A frown of discontent flitted over Patrick's face, and for a moment she feared she had woken him, but he merely sighed, then snored a little, and slept on.

"Hello, darling Teddy," she murmured as she held her baby in her arms, quickly moving back to the bed before the cold got the chance to nestle in her feet and crawl its way up from there. She thrust her legs under the blankets, Teddy balanced in her lap as she undid the buttons of her nightgown, sighing as the pocket of warmth trapped in their bed enveloped her, sighing louder when she could bring Teddy's face to her breast and he latched on.

She felt his forehead, smiling as she noted that he was as warm as a baby should be, and not a bit too hot. His nose was still a bit runny, his eyes soupy, but he had conquered his cold and these were merely fading symptoms. She pressed a kiss to his scalp, inhaling his scent, his black hair tickling her lips and cheek. His little hand closed around her finger as he drank. She kissed the little digits, blowing on the silky skin, pressing his soft palm to her lips again and again. She could never help herself with her children; she wanted to touch them whenever she saw them.

Patrick murmured something incomprehensible and flipped to his side, his hand instinctively reaching for her. A nightmare had made him cry out her name last night, his arms thrashing. Shelagh had shaken him awake, then held his trembling form as tightly as she could. He had tried not to cry in front of her, limbs shaking with the effort, until she'd cupped his face and kissed it, murmuring that it was alright if he wept. He'd cried a little, then, his weight heavy on her as she'd draped her arms around him, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades until the intervals between his soft sobs became longer and longer.

"I'm sorry I tried to hit you with an umbrella," he'd slurred, just before his breathing had evened out, and he had slept, legs tangling with hers, breath warm on her chest.

"It's alright, darling," she had replied, kissing the shell of his ear.

Shelagh cradled Teddy in the crook of her arm as he fed, then took her husband's hand in hers, stroking the fleshy pad of his thumb with her fingertips.

His hands were big, rough. On their wedding night, when they'd both been nervous, he maybe even more than she, he had apologised for them. "They're a labourer's hands, like those of a dockworker," he'd said, fiddling with his wedding ring. She'd been overcome with tenderness for him, a new wave of love that lapped the shores of her mind, temporarily stilling her nerves strung high with uncertainty of what this night would bring. In a moment of bravery that had taken them both by surprise, she'd taken his hands and placed them on her breasts, declaring that his hands were perfectly shaped for cupping her, and what was a doctor, if not a labourer of flesh and blood and bone, anyway? He had smiled at that, and kissed her before both could be plunged back in their previous nervousness. He had shown her that his hands were large, the skin dry, but his touch kind. A doctor's hands should be gentle, but they needn't be soft and small to be good.

"Hm," Patrick sighed as she rubbed the skin between his index finger and thumb, stroking it with her nail. He smiled, then inhaled deeply as he came awake, eyelids opening just a little. "Good morning," he murmured, then sat up.

"Good morning," Shelagh replied, adjusting Teddy slightly so Patrick could tuck her under his arm. He kissed her hair, then stroked Teddy's head, his weight warm against her back.

"How are you?" Shelagh asked, eyes snapping up and meeting his dark ones.

"Still a little tired, but what parent isn't with a teenager, a toddler, and a baby?" he quipped. He wiped the smile off his face when she didn't break eye contact. "I'm all right, Shelagh. It was just a bad dream, nothing more."

She looked at Teddy. Her baby boy was fighting against his sleepiness. His eyelids had slipped to half-mast, and his drinking had slowed. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, stroking Teddy's cheek.

Patrick was silent for a moment, fingers absent-mindedly playing with one of the buttons of her nightgown. "It was a silly dream."

"But it scared you." She thought about joking about umbrellas attacking them, but decided against it; she didn't want Patrick to feel as if she trivialised his fears.

"I dreamed Angela had been taken by fairies, and we went to look for her, and then you were gone, too. Suddenly the garden was a labyrinth, and I could hear you, hear our daughter, but I couldn't see you. You were calling out for me, but your voices grew fainter as I plunged through the twists of that maze, and then you were gone, and I knew I'd never see you again."

His eyes met hers, and she could see a world of pain and longing in them, so much that it temporarily robbed her of her breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered, giving him a small smile.

"Shelagh, were you terribly lonely as a child?" he asked, and she realised that he must have been meaning to ask her this last night, that this had worried him for hours now, poisoning his sleep and spawning nightmares.

Guilt coiled in her stomach, making her feel slightly nauseous. She placed her hand against his face, letting the fingers fawn out, stretching his skin till the worry lines disappear. "Oh dearest," she sighed, letting her forehead rest against his throat, holding Teddy tightly. "No, I wasn't lonely. I was just imaginative."

"But you left Scotland when you were still so young, coming all the way to London to study, and then to become a nun, and you only write Christmas cards to your cousins there…"

Her nipple slid out of Teddy's mouth with a soft plop. She picked her baby up, placing him against her chest, rubbing his back and rocking him, convincing him to burp so that he wouldn't be troubled by wind later. This forced her to let go of Patrick, but allowed her to see his sweet face fraught with worry. "Some people have dozens of friends and still feel lonely, and others know only a handful of people and never feel as if they're alone. You know that," she said.

"Was your childhood rotten?" Patrick asked, the directness of his question stunning her into a temporary silence as she contemplated her answer.

Had it been bad? She had missed her mother abominably, crying herself to sleep on more than one night. Her father had not known what to do with her. They had both missed her mother, but instead of that longing bringing them closer together, it had isolated them. She had been unable to break through his shield of stoicism; he could not reach past it and comfort her. But there were so many who had it worse…

"No. No, it wasn't rotten, dearest," she started, kissing Teddy's forehead as he burped. "It wasn't always easy, but I had my father, and he loved me, and I had my faith and my books and my stories."

"And friends?" Patrick asked.

"I had girls I walked to school with, and classmates I played with," Shelagh said, stepping out of the bed so she could stretch her cramped legs. She stopped in front of the window, looking at the dark street, the lampposts pockets of light in a sea of blackness.

She had gotten in her first and only physical fight at age ten when a classmate called Morven had ridiculed her belief in fairies, claiming that only babies and lunatics believed in them, and certainly not good Christians. Shelagh had been so overwhelmed with anger that she couldn't speak, sight fuzzy with tears.

"I bet your mother told you all those stupid stories. I bet that your mother didn't go to Heaven, but…" Morven hadn't been able to finish her sentence, because Shelagh had roared and tackled her, hands twisted in Morven's unruly mop of black hair, pulling the locks with all her might. They had needed two teachers to drag her away, her hands full with knotted strands of hair by then. The other children hadn't been very keen on playing with her after that.

"But were they your friends?" Patrick asked, coming up behind her, resting his face on her shoulder, arms snaking around her.

"Don't be such a worry-wart," she laughed, turning around so she could capture his lips. "I was perfectly all right back then, and even if I wasn't, I am surely perfectly happy now, with my sweet children and darling husband."

Teddy sighed in agreement.

"And those fairies?" Patrick asked.

"All children make up things like that, Patrick, girls as well as boys. Timothy would pretend our living room was the ocean just a couple of years ago, remember?"

"And what would you pretend?"

"I would have tea parties with winged creatures, and leave a crust of bread or a bit of milk out so they wouldn't have to go hungry at night." She kissed him again, revelling in his warmth and scent, smiling against his lips as he sighed. "Now, let's get downstairs. I need to make breakfast, because I can assure you that our fairies here won't be content with a bit of milk and stale bread, especially the fairy called Timothy."

"No, I don't think so," Patrick said, trying to return her smile. His was a bit strained, though, a bit tight.

 _He's just tired, and still raw,_ Shelagh thought, giving his hand a soft squeeze. She'd make his favourite dinner for when he came home, and try to ensure that the children went to sleep early, so that they could make love tonight, if they both felt like it.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too," he answered, voice soft, like his eyes.

She wondered if she should never have told him about those silly fairies.


	3. Chapter 3

**I said the plot starts rolling in this chapter, but that is not exactly true. The plot will thicken considerably in the next chapter, or so I solemnly swear.**

 **I've also added trigger warnings to my other fics. As for this one: I don't think it warrants trigger warnings per se, but in the next chapter it will veer into the realm of the uncanny. What can I say? I've not seen Turnadette combined with a bit of horror before ;).**

 **Thanks to purple-roses-words-and love for betaing.**

"So, was there someone in our garden last night?" Timothy asked, spooning his last bit of porridge into his mouth.

"It was nothing, probably," his mother said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind Angela's ear. His little sister had managed to smear honey around her mouth, the stuff shiny and sticky on her skin.

"Was there someone in the garden?" she asked, picking up her cup of milk with two hands.

"Apparently not, Ange," Timothy said, ladling jam on his toast.

"I think your mother just heard me come home," his father said. He spooned some sugar in his tea and took a tiny sip, grimaced, and added some more sugar.

"Then why were you brandishing your umbrella like a sword?" Timothy asked.

"Your mother saw me and screamed. It was a reflex," his father grunted. Timothy knew that tone of voice, and also knew not to push. His father's eyes were bloodshot, and he looked tired, drawn. Timothy wondered if the birth yesterday evening had gone awry; his father would sit with slumped shoulders and clouded eyes often if he could not help his patients.

"Maybe you saw fairies," Angela decided, wiping her milky moustache with the back of her hand.

"Not with your hands," his mother tutted, taking a napkin and gently wiping the residue of food from Angela's face. Her eyes snapped up and briefly met those of his father before flitting away again.

"Are there fairies in our yard?" Timothy asked his little sister, taking the opportunity to steer the conversation into safer waters.

"Not in our garden, silly. There is a fairy ring around the apple tree, though. If you step into it you can go to the fairies' home. Mummy told me. There are all kinds of fairies, and they like biscuits, just like I do," Angela said, face lighting up like a lightbulb.

"Really?"

"Yes. Fairies are interesting. They drink tea out of the cups of acorns and wear dresses made from cobwebs and…"

"Let's go and brush your teeth, Angela dear," his mother said, quickly taking Angela by the hand and drawing her away from the dinner table, eyes slipping sideways as she regarded her husband, as if afraid that Angela had said something terrible, something upsetting.

"Can I wear my charm bracelet today, Mummy?" Angela asked as their mother led her away. Angela had gotten a silver charm bracelet for her birthday, together with a little cross and a sunflower. She'd wear it every day if her parents would allow it.

Timothy felt a twinge of fear. His stomach coiled, and his fingers started to tingle. He folded his hands around his mug of tea to get rid of the sensation and looked at his father. "Dad, whatever is the matter?" he whispered.

His father looked up. "What?"

"Why is everyone behaving so strange?"

"I don't know what you are talking…"

"Oh come on, Dad! I'm almost an adult. I think I have the right to know what goes on in my own home. All this talking about fairies, and Mum with those biscuits in the garden last night… it doesn't make sense!" Timothy snarled. His blood roared in his ears and his heart pounded an angry rhythm in his chest. He hated how his father would try to keep him out of adult affairs. He was no longer a child to be shielded and coddled and told to put his hands over his ears when difficult topics came up.

His father's eyes widened in surprise. He tried to say something, then rubbed his mouth and sighed. "I'm sorry, Tim." He downed the last of his tea, then changed chairs so he sat next to his son. "I know I sometimes talk to you as if you're still a child, and try to hide things from you. It is only because I don't want to trouble you with my problems. "

"I know you don't, but bottling it up isn't helping anyone. It just makes me worried about you because I don't understand what is going on."

Like when his father and Shelagh had only been married a couple of months, and the atmosphere had suddenly turned strange and stilted. His mum had smiled a great deal, but it had looked tight, as if her mouth resisted the motion. Her eyes had been moist, and one day Timothy had even found her crying.

He had plopped down on the couch next to her and hugged her, even though he felt that he was really too big for that kind of thing. Surprised, his mum had hastily wiped away her tears with the palms of her hands before draping her arms around him. "I didn't know you were home already," she'd said, rubbing his back as if he was the one who needed comforting.

"I walked fast and now my legs hurt," he'd said, a desperate attempt to draw her thoughts away from whatever it was that had made her cry. From whomever, more like; his father had been oddly formal, his happiness forced and strained, like when Mummy had died. Timothy had been so desperately afraid that his new mother would leave if his father kept behaving so coldly towards her, and had hugged her to show her that he at least appreciated her being there, that _he_ was not distant.

And then one morning all had been all right again, the smiles on his parents' faces no longer fake, as if the tension of the previous weeks had dissipated overnight. Angela had come not long after, and whatever had troubled his mum and dad had been forgotten.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I'll try to do better, alright?" his father offered, sighing and pouring himself a new cup of tea.

"I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have yelled like that," Timothy mumbled, cheeks colouring. "But I just want to know what's going on."

"It's nothing to be worried about, Tim," his father said, craning his neck so he could look into the hallway. He quickly brought his face close to that of his son and whispered: "It's just that Angela has been talking about fairies a lot, and she gets those stories from your mum, so I asked her about her own childhood. Apparently, all her friends were of the imaginary kind. She said she was a very imaginative child, but I think Mum may actually have been rather lonely."

Timothy repressed the urge to roll his eyes at his Dad; he appreciated that his father finally opened up to him, finally shared some of the things that were troubling him, but _of course_ his mum had been lonely as a child. She'd lost her mother when she was very young, and that had forced her to grow up very fast. Timothy knew the responsibilities half-orphans had to shoulder, had experienced the grief and loneliness and estrangement from his peers first-hand. "She probably was, Dad," he said.

His father rubbed his mouth again. "And that is why I want to organise something special for her, something to show her that we love her."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I don't know exactly. Not yet, anyway. I don't know much about these fairies…" His father's voice trailed off, and his shoulders slumped.

"I could find out," Timothy offered. "I play with Angela a lot. I bet she wants to tell me all about her fairies."

His father blinked slowly. "That could work." He started to grin, face lighting up like a Christmas tree. "I do so want to make your mum happy. If you could help…"

"I'll be like 007, and find out exactly what mum's childhood with fairies was like," Timothy promised. "As long as I don't have to witness any mushy stuff, I am willing to help."

"Thank you," his father said, and ruffled his hair.

Timothy tried to duck away, but his father was quick, his hands big.

"Dad! I'm practically an adult now!"

"Right you are," his father chuckled softly, that strange haunted look fading somewhat.

 _Good,_ Timothy thought. "I'm going to see if Mum needs help," he decided. He was a man on a mission now, and would find out who exactly had peopled his mum's childhood garden, and what lived in the apple tree in their yard these days.


	4. Chapter 4

**Here we go! Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

Angela kept squeezing Timothy's hand with such force that her nails left little half-moons of white that quickly became red on his skin.

"Calm down, Ange," Timothy said, uncurling her fingers and rubbing the back of his hand.

"Don't hurt your brother, Angela dearest," her mother said from the front seat. She kissed Teddy's chubby cheeks and smiled at him. The baby gurgled happily, a little bubble of drool forming at the corner of his mouth.

"I am so excited!" Angela almost screamed, clasping her hands and flopping down with a huge grin on her face.

"It is just a picnic," Timothy said, placing his hands under her armpits and hoisting her up so she sat straight.

"The weather is absolutely gorgeous, though," their father said. He was right; the sun was high in the sky, burning away the small smudges of cloud till the sky was almost entirely blue. The first clusters of wildflowers had started to appear, and in the woodland bluebells reigned supreme. Trees were unfurling their new leaves. They were small and of such a pale green that they seemed almost yellow.

"I'm so excited!" Angela repeated, grabbing Timothy's hand and shaking it.

He sighed and put his copy of the Lancet down. "If I give you a present, will you promise to stop mangling my hand?"

Angela's heart beat so hard in her chest that she thought she would faint. "A present?" she asked, voice no louder than a whisper. She folded her hands as if in prayer and stared at him with big eyes.

"Here," Timothy said, digging a small box out of his pocket. He gently opened her hand and placed it on her palm.

"What's this?" her mother asked, twisting in her seat so she could look at her oldest children. "Did you buy Angela a present?"

"It's nothing," Timothy mumbled, cheeks flaming.

"What did you get your little sister?" their father asked without looking away from the winding country road.

Angela pulled the ribbon off and put it in the pocket of her little red coat. The box opened with a _snick_ and revealed her charm bracelet. "A charm!" she exclaimed, and picked her bracelet up. A soft chime filled the car as a tiny bell left the velvet of the box.

"A silver bell?" their mother asked, blue eyes sparkling.

"The fairies in our garden wear little silver bells too!" Angela explained as she held out her wrist so Timothy could put her bracelet on.

"Do they?" their father asked.

"Yes. There are three of them, and they are called Juniper, Evergreen, and Anemone. They wear blue dresses made from flower leaves…"

"Petals," her father corrected her.

"Petals," Angela repeated, "dresses made out of petals and cobwebs, and they were hats when it is chilly, and they each have a silver bell around their necks. That's because they are good fairies, and…"

"Good fairies wear bells to keep bad fairies away," her mother said, voice soft and sad. She kissed Teddy's forehead and stroked his scalp with gloved fingers. "You do have to say 'thank you' to Timothy. It was a very thoughtful gift."

For a moment, Angela wondered if she had something wrong, if she had somehow caused her mother to adopt that pensive look she had seen before her mother had turned her face away, but the joy at receiving such a present was too big to allow room for anything else. "Thank you thank you thank you!" Angela launched herself at her big brother, cupping his face with small hands and kissing his cheek.

He blushed almost scarlet. "Sit down, Ange, or you'll hurt yourself," he said, gently tucking her underneath his arm. She curled against his side, stroking the little bell with her fingertip.

"You'll spoil your little sister rotten," her father remarked. She could see his goofy grin in the rear-view mirror.

"She won't get anything for Christmas," Timothy said.

"That's not fair! I won't…" she started to protest.

"He is only joking, Angela," her mother said, looking over her shoulder and smiling.

"That's right. This is a special day, and I think it should be commemorated with a charm," Timothy mumbled.

"One special day coming up," her father said as he parked the car.

"It is just a picnic," Timothy said, "so don't get your hopes up too much, Mum and Ange."

Angela turned to look at him, brows furrowed. "Is this why you wanted to know all about Juniper and Anemone and Evergreen? They like picnics in the forest, too," she said. Timothy had wanted to know all about her fairy friends these past few weeks. He had taken part in Angela's tea parties and had even allowed her to put a tiara on his head, as long as she kept telling him all she knew about Faerie.

"I wanted to know all about them because they are my favourite sister's friends," Timothy said, ruffling her hair.

She grimaced and pushed his hand away. "I'm your only sister!"

"Well, that makes you my favourite right away, doesn't it?" Timothy grinned.

"I think it is terribly sweet of you two to organise all of this," their mother said as she put Teddy's knitted hat back on his head, "Especially because none of us have their birthday anytime soon."

"I am a terribly sweet man," their father said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before getting out of the car, trying not to slam the door so as not to startle Teddy.

"Ugh. You organise one trip to the forest and you immediately have to witness mushy stuff," Timothy said, rolling his eyes.

"Mushy stuff," Angela agreed, imitating his eye roll.

"I think a forest picnic warrants a kiss," their mother said, eyes sparkling.

"It isn't just a picnic; it is an adventure," Angela decided, "an adventure in Faerie."

They found a spot on a hill, shaded by a huge oak. They spread their blanket on the damp grass and parked Teddy's pram between the twisted roots.

Her father and brother had made sandwiches with cucumber and cheese, and others with jam. They had packed a china cup and saucer for her mother, too.

"You always had tea parties with fairies as a little girl, so we thought you might have another one now that you're a woman, and you can't have a proper tea party without an appropriate teacup," her father said.

Her mother gave Timothy a hug and a kiss on his cheek, then stepped into her husband's embrace.

"Are you happy?" her father murmured, chin resting on her head, arms tangling in the soft blue coat she wore.

"Terribly," her mother confessed.

"There aren't any proper fairy hills in England I think, but we thought that a hill with a big tree would seem magical, too," Timothy explained.

"Oh, but there's a fairy ring there," Angela said, and pointed to the ring of mushrooms at the base of the hill. They grew crooked and in strange pairs, their soft stems intertwining.

"Only go there when you've finished your lunch; we don't want you to eat anything in Faerie," her father said, giving her a wink.

"Don't go there at all," her mother advised her, tearing herself away from her husband so she could get Teddy out of his pram.

"Why not?" Angela asked, hopping from one leg to the other. Her new charm tinkled merrily. She wished she'd put on her new dress, the one that was the same blue as Juniper and Anemone and Evergreen wore, but her mother wouldn't allow it, afraid she would spill something on it.

"People get whisked away if they step into fairy rings, and we don't know who these fairies are," her mother said, sitting down on the blanket and putting Teddy in her lap, blowing on his chilly hands till he smiled goofily in delight.

"Are fairies pretty?" her father asked as he poured tea from the thermos into the china cup.

"Some are."

"In that case Timothy should definitely stay away; I don't think we'll ever see him again if he finds a pretty fairy," her father said.

"Dad!" Timothy flopped down and gave his parents a withering stare as they tried to stifle their laughter.

"I don't think I'd like to see you do mushy stuff, Timothy," Angela decided, "And I don't think it is polite, and you should always be polite to fairies, and give them some milk and some bread."

"I don't think they want teenage boys anyway," her father said, picking Teddy from his wife's lap and making silly faces.

"Why not?" Timothy growled before putting half a sandwich in his mouth.

"It is nothing personal, Tim. It is just so that fairies adore small children and babies, like Teddy."

"Are they going to take Teddy?" Angela asked, crawling onto her mother's lap.

"No, Angel girl. We're here, so they wouldn't dare," her mother soothed her, hands carding through her hair and stroking her scalp.

"I thought fairies also wanted women who were nursing, because they need them to feed their own offspring," Timothy remarked.

"What a ghastly idea," her father said. He frowned. "Well, Tim, it you and I must defend our women and baby Teddy here, because it seems to me that we've brought the people most likely to get snatched right to the fairies' doorstep. Put a piece of bread in your pocket, I'd say. Right, Teddy? Do you want a piece of bread, too? Do you?" he asked, taking Teddy's chubby fists in his hands and squeezing them. Teddy gurgled like a bubbling pot and smiled.

"It is a good thing that I'm no longer a baby, and haven't been one in a long time," Angela decided, wiping her jam-stained mouth with her hands.

They all laughed at that. Angela joined in, even though she didn't really understand what was funny about it; she was a big girl now, wasn't she? "I am practically grown up," she told her mother.

"I'd like you to stay my little girl just a wee bit longer," she replied, wiping Angela's hands and mouth with a napkin.

Angela slung her arms around her mother's neck and pressed her face against her throat. She was warm and full and happy, and a bit tired.

"You're not big enough to say no to a little nap, now are you? I could do with a little sleep myself. I think we all could," her mother whispered in her ear.

Angela shook her head, fighting against the cotton wool that clouded her brain and the heaviness that settled in her eyelids, causing them to droop like fading flowers. The currents of sleep tugged on her limbs, and she was not big enough yet to fight back. "Hm," she said, and sank.

She woke when a stray ray of sunlight tickled her cheek, then her eyelid. Annoyed, Angela rubbed her eyes, yawned, sat up, and stretched. Her coat rustled like wrapping paper. She brushed a blade of grass from her shoes, giggling as her bracelet jingled.

Timothy lay sprawled on the blanket, his copy of _The Lancet_ spread on his face, as if he hoped the words would relinquish their hold on the page and rain down on his head, to seep into his skin and through there into his bloodstream, into his brain.

Her parents were curled up around Teddy, and both fast asleep.

"Poor dears," Angela muttered, imitating her mother.

"Hello," a soft voice said.

Angela turned her face towards the sound, and saw a little girl stand inside the fairy ring. She had eyes dark as coal, and hair that hung in limp ringlets.

"Hello," Angela answered, fiddling with her charm bracelet. The tiny bell tinkled again.

"Won't you come and play?" the girl asked, cocking her head like a bird.

"Are you here with your Mummy and Daddy, too?" Angela asked as she slowly walked down the hill towards the little girl.

"My Mummy died," the child said, then giggled.

"I'm sorry," Angela said. She halted in front of the fairy ring. The trees that stretched behind it whispered in the wind, the old wood moaning and creaking, the twigs curling and stretching, as if reaching for her. She shivered, and touched her charm bracelet again.

"That is a really pretty bell," the girl said.

Now that Angela was close she could see that the child wore no shoes, and that her toes were strange and long, almost as if they were fingers. It sent a chill racing along her spine, and she shivered and huddled a little closer in her coat. "Are you a fairy?" she asked.

"What's your name?" the girl asked instead. "My name is Ivy."

"A… Alice," Angela lied. Hadn't her mother told her not to give her real name to fairies? All of a sudden, she couldn't remember, but instinctively decided it was better to err on the side of caution.

"Come," the girl said, turning around and walking away, slipping between the rough trunks smoothly, like water.

Angela had no desire to follow Ivy, and yet her feet obeyed the girl without question. Angela stared at her shiny black shoes as they moved without her consent. "I want to stay here," she said. "I want to stay with my parents and my brothers."

"But I am much more fun. I have a little brother, too," Ivy said, snaking between the knotted trees, supple like a ribbon, those strange feet gripping tree roots like hands. It hurt to look at them too closely.

Angela looked over her shoulder, and couldn't see the hill anymore, or the tree, or the car gleaming like a beetle. The forest had swallowed her. The bracken brushed her legs, as if caressing its child.

 _I am going to walk with her for a little bit more,_ Angela decided. If she pretended that she did this of her own volition, maybe her feet would believe it, and would obey if she wanted to turn back in a few minutes.

"Ivy, where are we going?" she asked, and thought: _I am going to walk just a little more. When she has answered me, I'll say I'd rather go back._

"To the cottage where my auntie and my little brother and my Mummy and I live. Well, where my Mummy used to live. She's dead now, of course," Ivy answered, clambering over a fallen trunk with those hand-like feet.

"I… I think I'd like to ask my Mummy if that is alright first," she said, and made to turn back, only her feet ignored her mind completely, and kept filling the strange footprints Ivy had already made in the soft, wet earth.

She couldn't help but whimper. Panic clawed its way up her throat, sharp like barbed wire. She didn't like this fairy who made her do things she didn't want.

"My Mummy is calling me. I should go back," she whispered. It wasn't a lie; she thought she heard her mother call out to her, but her voice was faint and far away. Maybe it was just the wind whispering or the leaves crackling as they curled up on themselves and then unfurled again.

"Please, Ivy, I don't want to…" Angela started, sentence interrupted by a sob. Her fingers and toes had gone numb with fear, and her voice was so soft that the trees above bent closer so as to hear. She put her hands in her pockets to warm them, and encountered a stale piece of biscuit, jagged like a shard.

 _Always be polite to fairies, and offer them some milk and bread if you can,_ her mother had advised her, _and then they can hold no power over you._

This realisation fortified Angela, as did the knowledge that she'd faced scarier monsters. Hadn't she trapped the thing that lived under her desk with little more than a handful of marbles? Hadn't she conquered her fear of the behemoth that nestled underneath her bed, and made sure he could never hurt anyone by encircling him with Timothy's old train set?

The fear that made her throat thick and her limbs tight like coiled springs didn't leave her, but had to huddle in the shadow of grim determination. She was _not_ going to be whisked away to Faerie, and she was _not_ going to let this strange girl tell her what to do.

"Ivy, do you… do you want a biscuit?" Angela asked.

The girl turned around. Her eyes were black as ebony and shimmered, as if they were black stones the river had licked. "A biscuit?" she asked, and licked her lips. Her tongue was thin and very pink.

"Yes. It is very good. My Mummy made it," Angela said, trying not to crush the shard of biscuit. Her fingers were trembling as she held it up.

Ivy stopped walking so she could look at it better, causing Angela to stop as well. Her legs tingled, ready to run.

Ivy twirled a stray leaf between her toes. "That does look yummy. Do you have any milk?"

Angela shook her head.

"Well, I think a biscuit by itself will do nicely, too," Ivy said, flexing her toes. The joints popped like wood on fire. Angela did her best not to feel sick.

"You must… I will give you my biscuit, but then you must let me go back to my Mummy and my Daddy and my big brother and my baby brother," she said. The words came slowly and were heavy in her mouth, more like marbles then combinations of vowels and consonants.

"But I want you to come and play with me," Ivy pouted, scratching her arm with her foot.

"You won't get my biscuit if you don't let me go," Angela said.

Ivy shrugged. "Alright. I'd rather you come with me than have that biscuit," she said, voice hard, eyes dull, as if the river had spat them out and the sun had dried them.

Angela's heart thrummed and her blood roared in her ears, loud and insistent as the sea. "No!" she screamed, stomping her foot. Her bracelet jingled happily.

"I do like that bell," Ivy said, stepping closer, stretching out a hand-like foot to touch Angela.

"My brother gave it to me," Angela whispered, focusing her eyes on the whispering bracken so as not to have to look at those strange toes as they caressed the charms on her wrist.

"Oh, that is pretty!" Ivy said.

"Do… if I give it to you, and the biscuit, will you let me go?" Angela begged. Her heart ached at the very notion of giving this gift away, but her brain was merciless; she'd ache a lot more if this strange creature had her way.

"I don't know…" Ivy dawdled, rubbing her eyes with one hand and one foot.

"You have to promise to let me go!" Angela whined, stomping her foot. Tears were burning behind her eyes, ready to spill.

"You aren't polite," Ivy said, voice colder than ice.

"That bell is much more fun than I am," Angela hastily agreed, flexing her toes in the hope that the feeling would return to them.

"Alright. I'll take them," Ivy said.

Angela didn't hesitate. She threw her biscuit at Ivy's feet, managed to unclasp the charm in a heartbeat, and flung it as far away as she could. She didn't wait for the fairy child to respond, but fled as fast as she could, pure terror lending her speed.

Her feet flew over the springy forest floor. Branches tugged at her clothes, trying to keep her from running, but she pushed them away, snapped them between her small fingers. She cried out as one particularly vicious twig yanked at her hair, but she didn't stop, not even when she fell and scraped her hands and knees bloody.

She reached the hill and scrambled up, howling in fear. Her father was with her before she reached the top.

"Angela, what's wrong?" he asked, eyes large with concern, hands straining to assess damage and heal.

"I…" she started, but couldn't speak; sobs clawed up her windpipe and tore through her mouth, leaving no space for words. She shook her head, and slung her arms around his neck, eyes burning with tears.

She'd been afraid, so terribly afraid, but now she was safe again, even if she had lost her pretty charm…

"Shh, I'm here," her father said, picking her up and rocking her like he did with Teddy sometimes if he couldn't sleep. Maybe he had been right when he laughed about her notion that she hadn't been a baby in a long time. He cupped the back of her skull with one hand, fingers fanning out over her scalp.

"Your hands are all bloody," Timothy remarked. He rubbed her back, spindly fingers warm through the torn fabric of her coat.

She clasped his hand in hers. He kissed it, not even caring that her digits were dirty with blood and earth. She wished her mother was there, too, to kiss her other hand.

"Can you tell us what happened?" her father asked as he put her down next to the pram that contained a sleeping Teddy so he could dig into his bag and find some disinfectant and salve for her hurting knees and hands.

"There was a fairy, and she... she wanted me to come, and I couldn't stop walking. I didn't want to walk but I had to, and I couldn't tell her no because that would be impolite, so I offered her my biscuit and my charm and then she let me go, and her feet were all funny," Angela said, spilling the words like water. She sniffed, and rubbed her eyes. "Where is Mummy?"

"What?" her father asked.

"Isn't she here with you?" Angela asked, voice small.

Her father looked up, face fraught with worry, eyes dull with anguish. "Angela, do you mean that Mummy wasn't with you just now?"

She slowly shook her head.

"But she was with you for a bit, wasn't she? She said she was going to play with you, and that was an hour ago," he said.

Angela shook her head again, heart beating so hard that she was sure it would smash her ribs to smithereens. "I only ever saw Ivy," she whispered.

Her father's hand grew cold. "I'm sure she's just taking a walk," he murmured.

"But fairies like mummies," Angela whispered.

"Fairies don't exist," her father barked, but he didn't seem so sure anymore.

Angela started to cry again, face turning red.

"Hush, Angel girl. I didn't mean it," her father sighed, picking her up again.

"Dad? What's wrong?" Timothy asked, rocking the pram with Teddy in it. The baby started to mewl; it was time for his lunch.

"Your mother isn't here," her father said, every word slow like a slug, "And she wasn't with Angela. She's gone."


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing!**

"Mum can't have disappeared," Timothy said.

"Well, she isn't here!" his father said, slashing his hand through the air to underline his point.

"She was here not so long ago," Timothy said. He had been asleep until Angela had started howling; they had all been sleeping. Teddy still woke often at night, and even though their mum did her best to pick him up and quiet him as fast as she could, Timothy would still wake from his mewling. Tiredness had knitted itself in their bones, and this picnic combined with full stomachs and a warm spring sun had made them all drowsy and ready for a nap.

"Mummy got taken by the fairies," Angela said, and started to cry hysterically again. Her skin was blotched, her eyes swollen.

Teddy started to scream in earnest, eyes shut and mouth open wide, toothless gums as red as his face.

"No such thing as fairies, Angel girl, but damn them anyway," his father said, picking Teddy up and rocking him.

"Don't worry, Angela," Timothy said, pulling her into his embrace. She slung her arms around his neck and clung to him like a barnacle.

"Hush, Teddy. No need to cry," his father murmured, kissing Teddy's forehead and blowing on his hands. Normally, the baby would scrunch up his face in delight and open his curled hand the way flowers unfurl their petals; now, he hiccupped, then continued crying at an even louder volume.

"Teddy is upset, so now I'm upset, too," Angela sobbed.

"Well, we can't get Teddy to be quiet just yet, not now that his dinner has walked away," Timothy said.

"Speak with a little more respect about your mother!" his father barked, eyes dark as a storm, wagging his finger at Timothy as if he was still a little boy that he could scold accordingly.

"No need to yell at me!" Timothy snapped. Anger coiled in his stomach. He pushed it down, telling himself that his father was frightened, terribly so, even. Doctor Patrick Turner only adopted this harsh tone, this authoritarian finger wagging, when he felt insecure, unsure of what to do.

"I'm sorry, Tim. I'm sorry," his father hastily apologised, rubbing his eyes.

Timothy repressed the urge to roll his eyes, and turned his attention to his little sister instead. "Look, Angela, everything is going to be just fine. Mum will come back in a little while, and that scary thing you saw is nowhere near," Timothy decided, cupping Angela's face so she could look at him.

"That's not why I'm crying. Not just that," Angela whispered, tears pooling in her eyes, spilling over, dripping down her cheeks.

"Is it because your knees hurt?"

She shook her head, and held out her wrist. "Ivy took your charm. I threw it at her so she would let me go," she said, voice cracking on the final word.

 _Well, there goes the money from my paper round,_ Timothy thought. For a moment, he was tempted to scold her for losing his gift, for throwing it at something that didn't exist. If it had been a squirrel, he could understand; she had been terrified of them before she could talk. To throw the silver charm at something that only existed in her mind, though, a gift he had worked hard for so he could buy it…

 _But it was real to her,_ Timothy realised, _and what good will getting angry do?_

He had spent hours with his legs tucked under him and a teacup in his hands whilst Angela told him about the adventures of Cuthbert the Second, about the gnomes she believed had hidden one of her shoes, about the fairies in their garden. She had even told him about the thing that lived under her desk, and a monster that lived under her bed, eyes huge and a nervous smile tugging on the corners of her mouth. What good could it possibly do if he scolded her for having a lively imagination?

"Don't cry about that, Ange. I'll get you a new one, alright?"

"Right after we find your mother," his father said, bouncing Teddy in a vain attempt to get the child to calm down.

"How will we do that?" Angela asked, wiping her moist eyes with the palms of her hands.

"We'll call her name, and walk a bit into the forest," Timothy suggested.

"She could be too far to hear," his father muttered, pacing between the gnarled roots of the tree.

"I don't think so," Timothy said.

"Why?"

"Her glasses are still here." He pointed to the metal frame that lay glistening next to the picnic basket.

"But why would she leave them?" his father asked, shifting Teddy and absent-mindedly kissing the baby's forehead.

"Because the fairies…" Angela started.

"No such thing as…" his father said.

"Ange, I know you are afraid Mum got snatched by fairies, but I don't think that is very likely," Timothy said. He squatted in front of her so he was at eye-level, and gently took her scraped hands in his. "Think about it. Have you ever heard of someone's mother disappearing because fairies took her?"

Angela scrunched up her face as she thought, then slowly shook her head.

"See? So don't you worry; she's going to come back, or we'll find her."

"Alright," Angela murmured, and sat down on the picnic blanket, next to her mother's coat. She pulled it over herself like a blanket, pressing the fabric against her mouth and throat, like she would have done with her toy rabbit if she'd brought it.

"Thank you," his father mouthed at him. He sat down next to Angela and stroked her hair with the hand he didn't use to keep Teddy pressed against his chest.

 _007 on duty again,_ Timothy thought. It felt almost like the old days when his mummy had died and his mum had not been a permanent part of their life yet. He felt the same amount of responsibility on his shoulders, maybe even more so now that he had not only himself and his dad to look after, but his little sister and baby brother, too.

"I'm going to see if I can find her," Timothy decided.

His father opened his mouth to say something, but Timothy spoke before he could. "Don't worry; I won't go into the forest, alright? I'm just going to call Mum and see if she answers."

"Here," Angela said, holding out a crust of bread. He shoved it into his pocket and trotted downhill, to the periphery of the woods. If his mother heard him call and shouted back, all this worrying would be for nought, and everybody could calm down again. If there was no answer…

"At least we know she must have gotten lost, then," Timothy mumbled, skirting the fairy ring and stepping in the trees' shadows.

The wind whistled through their branches till they swayed. The old wood creaked and groaned, moaning like one in pain.

"Mum? Mum, can you hear me?" he yelled. The wind threw his words around like a handful of leaves. He cocked his head and listened, but there was only the rustling of budding leaves, and the sighing of wood.

 _No birds,_ Timothy thought. He rubbed the back of his neck; the hairs there had risen, and gooseflesh rippled over his arms.

Timothy liked to consider himself an adult, but the nights when he had left the light on to protect him from things that lurked in the shadows and prowled the hallway were still fresh in his mind. He curled his fingers around the crust of bread Angela had given him, and suddenly didn't think her fear misplaced anymore.

"Mum?" he called again, stilling the need to run away as best as he could. "Mum? We're worried about you!" Still no answer.

Timothy did his best not to sprint back up the hill, to where his father and siblings were waiting. He didn't want them to think he was scared, even though he was.

"I don't think she heard me, or at least I didn't hear her answer me," he said.

"Bloody hell," his father muttered as Teddy's wailing picked up in volume.

"We need to get Teddy something to eat, and we need to get him and Ange out of here. We can't search for Mum with them around," Timothy whispered.

His father put the tip of his finger in Teddy's mouth, which provided them with a blessed quietude as the baby sucked furiously.

"I know, but I don't want to leave this place yet. What if Shelagh comes back, and we aren't here? It would take time to drop the children off at home and make sure there's someone to look after them."

Timothy felt a little thrill whisper through his veins at the words 'the children'. Did his father no longer place him in that group? He tried to stand a little bit straighter.

"I would go into the woods and look for her, only what if I get lost, too?" Timothy said.

"We could leave a note here, I suppose," his father said, knitting his eyebrows.

"How is she going to read that without her glasses? Deciphering your handwriting is hard at the best of times, and Mum is practically blind if she doesn't wear her glasses," Timothy pointed out.

"Damn," his father whispered.

His finger left Teddy's mouth with a loud pop and the baby started to holler for its lunch again.

"What if you drive Ange and Teddy home and get someone from Nonnatus to look after them, and leave me here? I'll stay in this spot, under the tree. This way, if Mum comes back, I can explain everything to her, and she won't have to worry," Timothy suggested. He tried not to shiver at the thought of those trees in the distance whispering, devoid of birdsong.

"We'll wait here for another bit, alright? Maybe she heard you calling. Maybe this is all just a stupid misunderstanding and we're all overreacting," his father said. There was fear in his eyes, though. It didn't mar the dark brown like it had done when Mummy died – not yet, anyway – but it was definitely there.

Timothy nodded and flopped down next to Angela. She wriggled under his arm so she could curl up against his side.

"What if Mummy did get taken by the fairies? Ivy said her mother had died. What if she wants our mummy, Tim?" she whispered, eyes huge as saucers.

"Then Dad will go and get her back, or else I will," he promised, though those words sounded a lot braver than he actually felt.

 _Mum, please come back,_ he thought. He repressed a shiver as he looked at the forest, the trees swaying ominously, the wood rattling, almost as if it was laughing at them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Things remain uncanny in this chapter. Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing!**

Shelagh palpated her ankle and winced as bolts of pain sizzled along her nerves. She hissed as her fingertips pressed against a particular tender spot. Gently, she lifted her leg and placed it on a gnarly root. Her stockings had torn, and she'd lost a shoe. She supposed it didn't matter much; there was no way she could limp her way back across this uneven terrain even if she had two shoes; not without glasses. Would she not have tripped if she had taken the few seconds to locate them and place them on her nose before chasing after Angela? Would she not have tumbled down this steep slope she now sat at the bottom of if the world had been more than a combination of fuzzy shapes and blurred colours?

"Damn that _blaigeard_ root," she cursed, very softly, picturing the root that had caused her to trip. She let her head fall back. It thudded against the tree she sat next to, the bark rough and reassuring.

Shelagh guessed she should feel lucky that she only had a wounded ankle and some bruises and scrapes. What if she had broken something? What if she had ripped her flesh open on a jagged rock? This thought was sobering but did little to distract her from her throbbing ankle, or her sore breasts. They had started leaking, and now her dress lay plastered against her skin, cold and wet and dirty. She had cracked her watch when she fell and the hands had stopped, but she didn't need a clock to tell her that Teddy's lunch was long overdue.

The wind rustled through the unfurling leaves overhead and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She shivered. The afternoon was drawing to an end, and with it the soft spring weather. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and she didn't have her coat with her.

"Stupid," she said out loud, hugging the knee of her good leg against her chest and slinging her arms around the limb, fingers curling in the soft flesh of her upper arms.

Tears prickled behind her eyelids.

"Stupid," she repeated.

It seemed almost days ago that she had woken from her nap, stretching and yawning, only to see a flash of red as her daughter disappeared into the woods. She'd shaken Patrick, and told him she was going after Angela before their girl hurt herself. He had grunted something, but she hadn't bothered to ask him to repeat whatever it was he had said. Instead, she'd quickly walked down the sloping hill, heart hammering in her chest.

She had called for her daughter, pushing away branches that hung low over the sandy path, caressing her cheek like slender fingers.

"Angela, come here, darling!" she had said, voice high-pitched, fuzzy eye-sight trained on the smear of her daughter's red coat as it bobbed and slipped between the trees.

Shelagh's progress had been slow, and she had lost Angela as twigs had tangled in her hair, in her dress, as if trying to pull her back.

"Angela?"

A girl giggled nearby, and a small hand touched Shelagh's arm.

"Angela, this is not a game!" Shelagh had snapped, trying to get a hold of the child, but her daughter had danced away from her, and she had to give chase again. The path had grown thinner, then disappeared altogether.

"You, young lady, are in so much trouble!" she had said through gritted teeth as a stray vine ripped her stockings. It was only when she had freed herself and looked up that she realised that the child she had been following could not be Angela.

The girl stood on a fallen tree trunk, head bathed in the slanting sunlight. Her hair was dark, not blonde.

Shelagh rubbed her eyes, and when she looked up, the child had gone.

She had shivered and huddled in her dress as the wind had picked up, fingers finding the stale crust of bread she had put in her pocket. It was superstition, she knew that, but she had not been able to help herself, slipping it in out of habit.

"It was a mistake to come here," she had whispered.

She had turned around and tried to make her way back, calling out to Angela all the while. Worry had gnawed inside her stomach, straggly and strong like a weed. It had distracted her, and she had not seen the protruding root, had not seen that the path curved away. She had stumbled, foot hooking underneath the root as her body fell forward. Pain had torn through her ankle as she fell, hands instinctively covering her head as she tumbled down.

"And now you are here," Shelagh said, resting her chin on her knee.

She hoped that Patrick and Timothy would come looking for her, but if they had, they had not been able to find her yet.

Had they found Angela? She hoped so. She could not bear the thought of her daughter wandering alone in this godforsaken place, these gnarled and twisted trees that framed the path tugging at her red coat and soft hair. If she had ever even gone into the woods, of course. What if Shelagh had just imagined seeing her, like she had imagined that other child, strange and fae?

Best not to think about that. It was the forest that did this to her, the strange strips of bark that clung to the tree and stroked her hair, the scent of pine and wet earth in her nose.

She was not a little girl anymore. She could not let fear for something otherworldly, something that may very well not exist, overwhelm her.

She had other things to worry about.

Teddy would be crying his head off by now, poor little thing. He must be so hungry…

She shivered, and moved a little closer to the tree. Should she try and shout, so they could hear her? She didn't think the sound would carry far, not with these earthen walls to swallow it, and the moaning wood to talk over it.

"Poor Patrick. Poor Timothy," she murmured.

They had tried so hard to give her a special day, a day in which she would not feel alone…

She remembered when Patrick had told her he would give her anything she asked for, her small foot and ankle – swollen with pregnancy, not with hurt – enveloped in his hand. She had not known what to say to the devotion she read in his eyes, couldn't think of any words that would adequately show how much she loved him. What could she possibly say to this gift of honesty, to the love and care he offered so freely, as if they were nothing but pebbles proffered to her cradled by a work-roughened hand?

She had cupped his face between her hands and kissed him like she had done so often before, like she would continue to do.

This picnic, this trip down memory lane, had been another gift for her, an answer to a question she had never asked out loud, but which he had heard anyway.

A tear slipped between her eyelids. She wiped it away with the palm of her hand, smearing the salty wetness over her cheek.

She was alone now.

Loneliness did not scare her. She had been a lonely child, and was still intimately familiar with the feeling, with this silent companion that had dogged her well into adulthood. One of the many attractions of joining a religious order had been the companionship of like-minded women. It had promised her a sense of belonging, a band of sisters and friends that she had always dreamed of.

Shelagh could not say that the order of St. Raymond Nonnatus had disappointed her. It had cared for her for ten years, and she had made friends there that would last her a lifetime. Still, being a nun had not completely solved that nagging, persistent longing in her to belong somewhere. She had been so much younger than the others, and that had set her apart somewhat.

She had tried to find what was lacking by speaking to her fellow nurses, but her habit had prevented any truly meaningful friendship from developing, as had her vows. She was not supposed to prefer the companionship of laymen to that of her religious sisters.

Quiet discontent and doubt had mingled inside her, growing like weeds. She had tried to pray them away, had tried to trample them and choke them, but they were straggly and strong, and she could not rip them out like she could have done if they had merely been plants.

Maybe that was what had attracted her to Patrick, and to Timothy: seeing that they were lonely. She was a nurse, and had made it her goal in life to heal and tend to the wounded and the sick and the hurting. What was loneliness if not an illness, if not a type of pain so persistent and sly that it could knit itself into the essence of a person's soul?

But to heal them, she had to show them she was a person in her own right, and that was something her habit and vows tried to make her forget. She had realised before that this aloofness did not suit her, but it had taken her many years to fully come to terms with this realisation. It had meant that she had to accept that she was still lonely, that she no longer fit in the world she had created for herself, and maybe never had.

She had tried to shed her identity as Sister Bernadette like a snake sheds the skin it has outgrown, and had stood before Patrick raw and pink like a new-born, her love for him clearly visible. It had been one of the scariest moments in her life. She had not understood in that moment that he had seen her love for him even when she had tucked it away. It was not until later in their marriage that she understood just how well he could read her.

Maybe none of this would have happened if he hadn't tried to do something nice for her, if he hadn't been able to see inside her as if she was made of glass.

"No," Shelagh whispered, wiping another tear away. None of this would have happened if she had been honest with him, and had told him about her childhood.

Her husband would not have felt the need to organise a fairy-themed picnic if she had explained how lonely she had felt, if she had not denied that her fairy friends had been a way of coping with the hurt of losing her mother and the subsequent loneliness.

But to tell him of that side of her childhood would be to acknowledge that she had been alone and smarting, would have forced her to accept that her father had not been enough, no matter how hard he had tried, and he _had_ tried so very, very hard…

There were moments when she wished she could go back in time. She wanted to take his work-roughened hand in hers and squeeze it, wanted to look into his kind, blue eyes and tell him that she understood, now. She understood that he could not speak of his grief for his wife to her, because to talk about it would make it more real. She understood there was warmth in him, but that the armour he lived in could not let that warmth seep out and touch her.

They had both been lonely and hurting, only instead of sharing those feelings so they could diminish, they had locked them inside and tried to ignore them, hoping them would go away if they pretended they did not exist.

"Lady, are you crying?"

Shelagh shot up, crying out at the sharp pain that pulsed in her ankle. She sank down and hissed, armpits damp with sweat.

Something that looked suspiciously like a girl hung in front of her, feet curled around like a tree branch as if she was a bat rather than a human. Her hair was dark and curly, her eyes huge.

"No need to shout," the girl said, and dropped down, landing on her hands and then rolling over without so much as a grunt.

"You startled me," Shelagh said, smoothing her dress. Her fingers trembled.

"Did you fall?" the girl asked.

Shelagh nodded.

"Oh. That's unfortunate." She sat down in front of Shelagh, folding her legs. Shelagh could not be sure, not without her glasses, but the child's toes seemed very long, as if she had hands growing from her legs rather than feet.

"What's your name? I'm Ivy," the girl said.

"Sh… Sinéad." What was wrong with her? Why would she lie about something as inconsequential as a name to a child?

 _But a name is not a light matter at all,_ Shelagh thought. To be called Sister Bernadette or Shelagh Mannion or Shelagh Turner had vast consequences for how others responded to her, how they perceived her, how she perceived herself.

"Your dress is wet," Ivy said, snapping Shelagh out of her reverie.

"I'm nursing," she said.

"Where's your baby?"

"With his father, I think," she said.

"I have a baby brother, but there's no one to nurse him," Ivy said, scratching her head with one of her feet. Her limbs were pale and thin.

Shelagh suddenly wondered if anyone even bothered to look after this child. Why else would she be so willowy, and why else would she walk around without shoes and only dressed in what looked like a thin, filthy dress?

"Did your Mummy die?"

"Yes. My Auntie has been looking for someone to nurse my brother, but we haven't found anyone yet. She hasn't, in any case. I've found you now, of course."

Gooseflesh rippled over Shelagh's arms. She did her best not to shiver as everything inside her told her that something was _wrong_ with this child.

"I'm sorry that you don't have a mummy anymore, Ivy. My mother died when I was still very young, too," she said.

Ivy shrugged. "Why don't you come with me and visit my home? You could be my mother," she proposed.

Shelagh felt the raw power of fear inside her. She smiled, but she was sure it looked tight, strained, unnatural. She forced that feeling down. What was wrong with her?

"I'm sorry, Ivy, but I can't. I have three children of my own I need to look after," she said. She reached for the girl and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Ivy's eyes were very large as she looked at Shelagh without blinking. Her skin felt dry and papery.

"That's not very nice," Ivy said.

"I'm sorry, but I would miss my sons and daughter terribly, and my husband, too."

"But they have each other. I have no one," Ivy said, scrunching up her face like a wet napkin. She sniffed. "I could make you come, you know. I could make your feet follow me all the way back to where I live. I could do that."

"Do you often make others do things against their will?"

"What?"

"Do you often force people to do things that you want them to? Because that isn't very nice, Ivy," Shelagh said. She would have sounded more stern if her voice hadn't been so hoarse, her throat hadn't been so dry.

Ivy blinked slowly, and folded her feet, toes interlacing. "No," she said, voice low.

"People don't like it when you boss them around," Shelagh continued.

"No, I don't often do that, because there is no one for me to boss around," Ivy whispered.

This time, it was not fear that throbbed inside Shelagh like a wound; it was compassion. This was just a little girl, neglected and hurting.

Lonely.

"Come here," Shelagh said, opening her arms.

Ivy blinked again and got to her feet slowly, taking a hesitant step forward.

Shelagh took the child's hand in hers and pulled her closer. The girl's skin felt like paper, her fingers like ice. She sat the girl down on her lap, trying not to wince as another bolt of pain sizzled along the nerves in her ankle.

"Ivy, listen to me," she said.

Ivy blinked again slowly. Shelagh could not focus on her face; her eyes kept slipping away from it, but she didn't know if that was because she missed her glasses or because she had trespassed on some strange litmus space, and the child she now held was not human.

"I know what it's like to be lonely," Shelagh started, "And I know how it hurts. I know it is easier to try and feel something else instead. Do you try and feel something else?"

"Anger," Ivy said almost immediately. "I feel angry a lot of the time."

"I felt angry too, sometimes," Shelagh said, remembering how her hands had yanked at raven locks of hair, how her fingers had wound around those tresses till they knotted.

"Not anymore?"

She shook her head. "No, not anymore." She thought of Teddy's reassuring weight as she cradled him, of Angela's soft giggles, of Timothy's slouching form as he helped her do the dishes. She thought of Patrick, and how he would tuck her under his chin when they embraced, enveloping her with his arms, his warmth, his scent.

"What made you stop being angry?" Ivy asked, sucking in her lower lip. She stopped ripping shoots of grass out of the earth with her feet, becoming still as a statue.

"Love," Shelagh said without hesitation.

"Who did you love?"

"My father, and God. The friends I made. My husband, and my oldest son. My daughter, and my baby boy." Tears blurred her vision even more. She smiled, and wiped them away with her sleeve.

"I could… I love my little brother," Ivy said, words slow and uncertain, voice rising on the final word, as if it was a question rather than a statement.

"You could," Shelagh said.

"He has very blue eyes. My Auntie says all new-born babies have those, but they are very pretty, like cornflowers. And he has a big belly button. If you tickle him, he gurgles, like water when you boil it to make tea. He has gills that flutter open and close if you blow on them. And he is warm, and soft, and smells like my Mummy," Ivy whispered. She smiled. "What is your baby like?"

"He has blue eyes, too. I had hoped they would be brown, like his father's, but they remained blue. I think my husband is very pleased about that, though. He smells of milk and baby powder, and loves it when you touch his hands. If you blow on them, they stutter open, and he smiles." She laughed. "He looks a bit like an old man when he smiles, because he has no teeth yet."

"Would he miss you if you did not come back?"

"He is too little to remember me now if I were to disappear," Shelagh murmured, fear sending prickles over her scalp, "But my daughter would miss me, and my son, and my husband."

Ivy suddenly threw her arms around Shelagh's neck and hugged her tight, bony form pressing hard against Shelagh's chest.

"I'll get milk all over you," Shelagh whispered, but she cupped the girl's skull anyway, and rubbed circles between the child's shoulder blades. They stood out sharply, like little wings made of bone.

"I know what it's like to miss your mummy. It is horrible," Ivy said.

"Does… Does that mean you will help me to get home?" Shelagh asked, heart hammering in her chest. She fumbled for the crust of bread in her pocket, unsure of whether to offer it or keep it safe. Ivy's strange foot curled over Shelagh's hand, stroking the crust.

"Do you want to go home?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Then let's see what I can do."


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing. The final chapter, guys!**

"No Mum yet?" Patrick asked as he ran up the hill towards his son.

Timothy shook his head, huddling closer in his coat. The wind had picked up, and now that the sun had dipped low in the sky, painting it orange and purple and pink, the temperature was dropping rapidly.

"Here." Patrick pulled a sandwich from his pocket and a scarf from his doctor's bag.

"Thanks, Dad," Timothy murmured, slinging the scarf around his neck with one hand whilst using the other to bring the food to his mouth. "You're back faster than I thought."

"Don't tell your mother, but I drove a lot faster than is strictly allowed," Patrick confessed. He had emptied the picnic basket in the trunk and put Teddy inside with an abundance of blankets, putting him on the ground of the car at Angela's feet. It had hardly been the safest way to transport both children back. He had thought about asking Timothy to come along and hold the baby before deciding that dithering was not going to get them home any faster.

"How are Ange and Teddy?" Timothy asked, putting the last bit of sandwich in his mouth.

"Trixie is watching over them now. She was about to give Teddy a bottle when I left." He had wanted to take some time to comfort them, to tuck Angela into bed, but there had been no time. He had gathered some blankets, his doctor's bag, a thermos with hot tea, and some sandwiches, and had driven back as fast as he could.

"Were they terribly upset?"

"Angela stopped crying when Trixie promised her a bedtime story, but she was awfully quiet on the way home."

Patrick curled his hands into fists to get the blood flowing. The wind was laced by the sharp tang of frost, and nipped at his fingers till they felt like icicles.

"Dad, what do we do now?" Timothy asked, turning his face towards him. "Do we go into the woods and look for her? Do we need to go to the police station and report her as missing, and ask them to help us find her?"

"I don't think we have time to go to the authorities and explain the situation, not now that the weather is turning so cold," Patrick sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "I think two things might have happened: your mother has hurt herself and hasn't come back because she can't, or she has lost her way and hasn't found us yet. Maybe both." He didn't know which of those alternatives were scarier. She had to be found, and soon; the cold was coming on fast, ready to bite. She must be hungry besides, and thirsty.

"What if she has hurt herself, and we can't get her out?" Timothy asked, voice low, eyes trained on the swaying trees.

"Let's deal with the situation we find," Patrick decided, clutching his bag tight. He handed Timothy a torch and switched his own on. Two thin beams crawled over the springy hill, pale and faint.

"Stay close to me, Tim," he said as they reached the edge of the forest. The trees cast impossibly long shadows in the setting sunlight. They were sharp and jagged and very dark. The torches sliced them apart like knives, but only temporarily.

"Shelagh? Shelagh, can you hear me?" he called out. His words bounced between the bracken, between the trunks, and came back strangely distorted, like misshapen echoes. He tried his best not to shiver.

"I can't believe Angela voluntarily went in," Timothy said, "This place… it scares me, Dad."

"I don't like it much either, son," Patrick confessed.

"How could we ever have picked it as a fairy tale place for a picnic?"

"It looked different on photographs. Less…" – _magical? Ominous?_ – "wild."

The trees encroached evermore upon the path the further they came. Brambles snaked tendrils over the packed earth, their thorns sharp and as large as teeth.

"Mum?" Timothy called, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Mum, where are you?"

 _Are you?_

 _Are you?_

 _Are you?_

His words came back sounding harsh and strange, like pebbles flung at them. It sounded as if someone was laughing at them, and Patrick was sure he saw a pale face with large eyes and dark hair in the harsh light of his torch once as he swept the beam over the thick bracken, but when he brought it back, there was nothing there.

"Have you noticed there are no birds here?" Timothy asked, knotting his scarf with trembling hands.

"Maybe they've all gone to sleep now that the day is over. Shelagh? Shelagh, if you can hear us, please answer us, darling!"

Patrick ripped his trousers on a particular vicious thorn, and cursed loudly.

"Dad!" Timothy looked at him with huge eyes.

"Sorry. It's just that… I'm worried," Patrick said, resisting the urge to stomp on the brambles that were now dressed in a piece of fabric that wasn't theirs.

The sun had set, and darkness fell fast, sneaking up on them like a predator.

They walked on.

Once, Patrick thought he saw her, saw his Shelagh, and sprinted towards her. He placed his hand on her pale form, only to realise that it was a piece of wood vaguely shaped like a woman. It was wet and rotting, like a tooth, and his hand came away with a strip of bark clinging to it, fingers coated in grime.

He cursed under his breath, and turned back.

For one heart-stopping moment, he could not find the path.

His heart hammered in his chest. Sweat prickled underneath his armpits, at his hairline. He wildly swung his torch, slicing at the night with the pale, cold light.

"Dad?"

The beam of his torch fell upon Timothy's white face, on his eyes with dark circles underneath.

Patrick let his breath escape between his lips. "Here!" he said, and jogged back to the path, trying not to break out in a full run, even though he was suddenly afraid that something was behind him.

"I thought I lost you!"

"I'm sorry. I thought I saw your mum."

"We shouldn't lose the path," Timothy said.

"Maybe we should throw breadcrumbs," Patrick tried to quip, but it sounded strained.

They walked on, calling out to Shelagh, the only reply they got the twisted echoes of their own words.

The moon climbed the sky, and stars could be seen between the skeletal branches overhead. A clear night meant colder temperatures, but at least they could still see the path as it bathed in the starlight, in the slices of their torches.

"I don't know what I am going to do if we don't find her," Patrick said after a while.

"We'll find her," Timothy said.

Patrick gave him a small smile. He wished he still had that youthful optimism, or at least his son's grim determination. When Marianne had died, Tim had often awoken in the middle of the night, screaming. Patrick would rush to him and hug him, offering is son to come and sleep in his bed so he wouldn't be alone, so he wouldn't be frightened. Timothy doggedly refused. "I'm not a child anymore. Only babies sleep with their parents," he would say, and even though he clutched Cuthbert to his chest with a small hand, a child's hand, he would not stir from his bed, preferring to stare at the whispering shadows on the wall till morning came.

Neither of them had gotten much sleep in those days.

It had all gotten better when Shelagh entered their lives, of course. His Shelagh, fiery and determined and kind.

 _God, I know I am a sporadic believer at best, but if you hear this: please give her back to me,_ he thought, hating himself for praying. But this was a godless place, and he'd rather call his wife's God here than those strange creatures Angela insisted peopled these woods.

"We can't stay out here and search the entire night. If we don't find her soon…" he said.

"Hush!" Timothy said, pressing his finger against his lips.

"I don't like this possibility either, but…"

"Dad, be quiet!" Tim hissed, cocking his head as if he heard something.

Patrick frowned, then listened, eyes slipping sideways as he focussed entirely on his hearing. At first, there was only the moaning of the trees around him, the swish of twigs rattled by the wind. Then, very softly, he heard someone call: "Ivy?"

He couldn't be sure it was her, but who else would be in the forest at this time? His heart beat a painful tattoo in his chest, pumping his blood through his veins till it roared in his ears, taking away all other sounds.

"Shelagh?!" he shouted.

"Mum?" Timothy aimed his torch at the road ahead.

Faintly, almost so hushed that it could have been his imagination, could have been the wind, he heard: "Timothy?"

"Shelagh, it's us!" Patrick yelled, breaking out into a run. He stumbled over a root and ripped the other leg of his trousers, but he didn't care. Timothy was close behind him; their feet pounded the sandy road almost in counter-rhythm.

"Patrick?"

"Keep talking!" he shouted, nearly tripping again. His chest was heaving by the time his torch fell on Shelagh's face, relief making him giddy.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the bright light, raising her hand to block it.

Patrick dropped down beside her. He wanted nothing more than to drape his arms around her, to pull her close and never let go, but he had to see if she was hurt first.

There were worry lines between her eyebrows as she looked at him. He wondered how much of him she could see in the darkness, without her glasses. She was pale, and there was a smear of earth on her cheek.

He placed his hand against her forehead. She shivered, then melted against his hot palm.

"Are you hurt?"

"I twisted my ankle, and I am tired, and very, very thirsty."

 _It could have been so much worse…_

"You must have been so scared," he whispered, shrugging out of his coat and draping it around her. He buttoned it close, noting how her dress was wet and filthy.

"Mum!" Timothy flopped down beside her and took her hand, squeezing it very tightly.

"Timothy!"

"We thought you were gone," Patrick said.

"I thought you were never going to find me," she said, voice raw. She pressed her free hand against her mouth as a sob tore through her.

"Well, we're here now," Timothy said, stroking her hand. The back was red with scratches, as if she had fought with brambles and lost.

"Here," Patrick said, taking the thermos from his doctor's bag. He poured some tea in the cup, then guided it to her mouth. She took small sips, sighing as the liquid warmth nestled itself in her belly.

Timothy fished her glasses from his pocket and gave them to her.

"God, I've missed them," Shelagh whispered as she put them on, blinking owlishly.

"We've missed you," Patrick said.

He took her foot in his hand. She had lost her shoe, and her stocking hung in tatters. There was some crusted blood just below her knee, but it looked like no more than a scrape. Her ankle was a different story; the flesh was swollen, and bruises bloomed there. They looked oddly washed out in the light of the torch.

Shelagh let her head drop back and hissed as his thumb pressed into a particular dark bruise.

"Does it hurt?" Timothy asked.

"Nothing I can't handle," she said through gritted teeth, smiling at him.

"You can't walk on it. No wonder you didn't come back," Patrick said.

"You must have been so worried, and the children too… Where is Angela? And how is Teddy?" Shelagh asked. Her lips were chapped.

"At home. Trixie is looking after them," Timothy said.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Patrick placed his hand against her cheek and stroked a stray tear away with his thumb. "Let's get you out of these infernal woods before we tell you everything, alright? I have blankets in the car, and some food."

"But we can't go. There was a little girl here. I can't leave her here, even if she knows these woods a lot better than I do." Shelagh got up, curling her hand in his shoulder as she leaned on him. "Ivy?" she called.

"Shelagh, don't!" Patrick said.

She stumbled and would have fallen if he hadn't flung his arms around her.

"I'm a bit dizzy," she murmured.

"You haven't eaten, and you are dehydrated," Timothy said.

"Finished that copy of _The Lancet,_ did you?" she asked, giving him a small smile.

"I read it twice," Timothy said, thrusting his hands in his pockets, "And I'd very much like to read it again, though maybe not tonight."

"It'll be tomorrow soon enough," Patrick said, looking at his watch. "What do you say, Shelagh? Time to get home?"

She looked over her shoulder, face fraught with worry. "But that little girl…" She shook her head, as if getting rid of a bothersome thought. "Never mind."

Patrick took her in his arms gently, afraid of hurting her further. She smelled of milk and pines and perfume.

Timothy picked up the torches and the bag and went ahead of them, illuminating the road.

"Are you going to carry me all the way? You'll just throw out your back, darling," Shelagh murmured, placing her face against his throat.

"It'll keep me warm. Who would've thought that you would be a coat thief as well as a shirt thief?" he grinned, kissing her temple.

She smiled. "You gave it to me voluntarily, darling." She touched the back of his neck with an icy hand. "I mean it. You will just hurt yourself. I can limp."

"Do you honestly think I will let you limp your way to the car after I've left you here for hours? Do you think I will let you go now that I've found you again? Because you don't know me very well if you think that, love," he said.

"No," she murmured, "No, I don't."

Patrick put Shelagh on the backseat, so she could keep her wounded ankle up. He covered her in blankets, and gave her a sandwich and the rest of the thermos to wash it down.

Timothy told her what had happened to Angela as they drove home. Shelagh answered their questions about her own misadventures as best as she could. She told them how she had chased after Angela, but had lost their daughter, how she had tripped over a root and hurt her ankle, making it impossible to go back.

"But you were on the path when we found you," Timothy pointed out.

"I climbed back up."

"With your ankle all swollen?" Timothy asked, eyebrows raised so high they almost met his hairline.

"I had help. There was a girl called Ivy, and she helped me."

"Angela mentioned a girl called Ivy, too. She said she wasn't nice at all, but scary, with feet that looked like hands."

"She had strange feet, yes."

Patrick suppressed a shudder. "No such thing as children with four hands," he murmured.

"Maybe I'm just confused," Shelagh agreed, voice low.

They didn't talk again till they came home.

Timothy helped his mum up the stairs as Patrick thanked Trixie and let her out.

"Is she alright?" Trixie asked, eyes very big and kind.

"A twisted ankle. She was cold, and slightly dehydrated too, of course, but I think it's nothing that time won't heal," Patrick said.

"I'm glad. It could have ended very differently, you know," she said, giving him a smile and stepping out into the street to where her bike was parked.

"Oh, I know," Patrick whispered.

He closed the door and rubbed his eyes. Part of him wanted to crawl back into the car and look at the sky, let the stars and the moon mesmerize him till he forgot that he could very well have lost his wife today.

Again.

Another part, stronger than the first, made him go upstairs and look at his children.

Teddy was sleeping, chest falling and rising steadily as Patrick rested his hand there for a moment.

Angela's hair was spread out like a fan on her pillow, glowing like gold in the light of the hallway that slipped into her room. She opened her eyes as he came in, and blinked groggily.

"Daddy?" she whispered.

"Yes, Angel girl. I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to say that Mummy is back, and she is alright." He sat down on the edge and stroked her head, fingertips fanning out against her scalp, pressing lightly.

"I know," Angela murmured, rubbing her eyes with two chubby hands.

"You did?"

"She came to kiss me goodnight. She smelled like the woods. I was afraid it wasn't her for a moment, but she smelled like milk, too, and she touched my head like only you and Mummy do, so then I knew it really was her."

"Ah," Patrick said.

"I told her about Ivy. She said she met her, too."

"Did she?"

"Yes. I told her I thought Ivy was mean and scary, not like Juniper and Anemone and Evergreen at all."

"And what did your mother say?" Patrick asked.

"That she was a fairy girl all right, but she was just lonely, and she didn't mean any of it that way. She said it was good I didn't give her my real name, and that I gave her some bread. She said she was proud of me."

"Of course she's proud of you, Angela. I'm proud, too," he said. He kissed her forehead, and was about to close her bedroom door, when she asked: "Daddy, are you upset with me?"

"Upset with you?"

"For talking about fairies, and for making Mummy go missing," she said, not looking at him. She put Cuthbert the Second against her face, inhaling his scent.

"Oh, Angela, of course not." He sat down next to her again.

"Mummy said I should not talk about fairies with you anymore. She says you find it upsetting," she whispered, voice muffled through Cuthbert's ear. "She says you don't believe in them."

Didn't he? He could chalk Shelagh's rambling about them up to confusion caused by dehydration, but how, then, could he explain that both his wife and his daughter talked about the same fairy? They had never mentioned this particular fairy girl before.

Patrick sighed. "Come here, you."

She sat up and curled against his side. He tucked her under his arm and kissed her head, still warm from sleep.

"Do you remember what we said about God?"

She nodded. "Mummy says He's there, but you can't see Him, and that some people need to see to believe. She says that you don't always know about God for sure."

"And does that stop her from talking about Him, and believing in Him?"

Angela shook her head.

"I think it might be the same thing with fairies, Angel girl. I have never seen one, so I don't know for sure whether they exist. Maybe they do. Maybe, one day, I'll see one, and I know you and your Mum have been right all along. In the meantime, just don't wander off again without telling us." He kissed her head once more.

"I didn't mean to, Daddy, but she made me. Ivy made me," Angela said, curling her hands into Cuthbert's matted ears.

Patrick wondered what it was like to believe like that with all your heart.

"Well, we won't go back to that forest any time soon, don't you worry," he said, and tucked her in again.

"Goodnight, Daddy," she whispered, eyelids fighting a losing battle against sleep.

"Goodnight, darling girl," he said.

Timothy was already in bed, sprawled on his belly, soft snores issuing from his mouth. Patrick grinned, and pulled a blanket over him, stroking his hair. His son had made him proud today. He had kept a cool head when Patrick had felt like weeping, and had waited for hours at the gnarled oak without complaint, probably only with the occasional eye-roll. Tim was a man now. Well, almost.

He found Shelagh in the bathtub, hugging her knees to her chest. Her dirty clothes lay in a heap next to the bath. Her glasses perched on the sink, already misted over. She had washed her hair, and it lay plastered against her neck, one tendril curling against her throat.

"Shelagh?"

She looked at him, and gave him a weary smile. "The children are asleep," she said.

"Yes." He knelt down next to her and touched her shoulder. For a moment, he didn't know where to start, so many feelings mingling in his belly that he didn't know what he felt at all.

"You must be tired," she said, pushing his floppy hair from his forehead with a small hand.

He enveloped it with his own, then kissed it and pressed it over the cavity where his heart beat for her.

"Shelagh, I am so, so sorry. This should have been a fun day, and instead it turned into a nightmare."

She looked at him with moist eyes, then cupped his face. "You don't have to apologise, Patrick. It is not your fault; it is mine."

He knit is eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, Patrick," she sighed, "I should have been honest with you. I should have talked to you about my childhood instead of tucking it away and pretending all was well. I can't help but feel that you wouldn't have done all of this if you hadn't felt as if I was hiding something from you. I should have told you I was a lonely child."

"But Shelagh, I knew that."

She blinked in surprise. "You knew?"

"I guessed there was a very real possibility, in any case. That's why I wanted to give you this day: so you could make a new memory with fairies, one that was happy."

"I didn't know," she said.

"Why didn't you want to tell me, darling?" Patrick asked, stroking her knuckles. There were dark circles underneath her nails.

"Because I didn't want you to pity me," she murmured, voice low, eyes trained on the cake of soap that glistened in its holder.

"Shelagh, didn't you want me to take care of you?"

"I don't know," she confessed, rubbing her eyes. "It's not that I don't think you are capable to help me when I need it; it's just that I prefer not to need help at all, because if I don't need help, it means nothing is out of sorts. It means I am doing fine, and I am not hurting, or at least I'm not hurting so much that I can't manage."

He remembered when the doctors had told her of her infertility, and he had tried his best to look after her. She had been up and about as soon as she could, insisting on doing housework even though the red line on her abdomen had been more wound than scar. She had wanted things to go back to normal as soon as possible. Patrick suddenly felt like an absolute fool for not realising it sooner.

He stood, and pulled his tie off, fingers stumbling on the tight knot for a second before he managed to wrench the blasted thing free.

"What are you doing?" Shelagh asked as he pulled his jumper over his head and threw it down.

"Getting in the bath with you."

"But…"

"No complaints, Mrs. Turner. You need to put that poor ankle of yours up, and how exactly are you going to wash yourself in that position?" he said, voice serious but eyes twinkling.

"Patrick, everything will get wet," she softly scolded him, but she still scooted over so he could get in behind her and bracket her with his legs. The water was hot and soapy.

"Ankle up," he ordered her. He was pretty sure she rolled her eyes at him, but she did as he told her, and leaned against his chest. He slung his arms around her and kissed her temple.

"I thought you were going to wash me."

"All things in due course, or do you have an appointment with a certain fairy that lives in our garden?" he quipped.

She didn't laugh. "Today was very strange, Patrick," she said instead. "And I know you don't believe in fairies at all, but I would swear I met one today, even though I often think that the fairies of my childhood must have been figments of my imagination. "

"Maybe they do exist. Who knows?"

She sat up and turned around to look at him. "You don't believe that," she said.

He shrugged. "We learn new things about the world every day. Maybe one day we will find conclusive proof of whether fairies exist. Maybe we never will. Until then, we can't know for sure," he said.

"No," she agreed.

Patrick picked up a sponge and dipped it in the water. "All I know for now is that you've had a horrible day," he said, gently wiping the dirt from a bruise on her back.

"I'd like to see it more as an adventure," she decided.

"An adventure in Faerie," Patrick smiled.

He washed her shoulders, her back, her arms and legs. She had quite the collection of bruises, blooming purple and blue under her skin, and there were scratches on the backs of her hands, but she didn't complain once.

He fetched a chair for her to sit on as he towelled her dry, but she refused, telling him she wasn't that old or that wounded just yet. Instead, she leaned on the edge of the bath as he wiped away the beads of moisture that clung to her.

Shelagh hissed when he touched her breasts.

"Sensitive?" he asked.

"Teddy's feeding is long overdue. I wanted to wash first, but I'm afraid I'll have to wake him up before I can even think of sleeping."

"He won't complain. Trixie said he didn't much care for the tin of formula she brought."

Patrick knelt in front of her and kissed her belly. It wasn't as tight anymore as before her pregnancy, and there were red marks still. He wondered if they would turn silver in time, like the line from her surgery had done.

She carded a hand through his hair as he kissed the soft flesh. "No funny business tonight, Doctor Turner," she murmured, stroking the tip of his ear with her thumb.

"I wasn't planning to," he answered, brushing her hip teasingly as he slid the towel over her legs.

"I had hoped for some when I got up this morning," Shelagh confessed, the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she smirked at him.

"I bet you did," he laughed, and kissed her knee. "It is one of the perks of having a younger wife."

"Patrick?"

He looked up, and met her eyes, blue and liquid and soft. "Yes?"

"I'll do better next time. I'll let you take care of me when I need it."

"You already are doing better, love," he said. She smiled at that.

He got into his pyjamas, helped her into her nightdress, then carried her to bed, propping her hurt foot up with a pillow. Teddy was fussing when he handed him to her.

"Look at you, all grumpy because dinner wasn't to your liking," Shelagh said, and kissed his head as she pulled her nightdress down.

"I'll throw your dress and slip out," Patrick decided.

"You'll do no such thing. I've already ruined a pair of stockings and I lost a shoe. I'm sure that slip and dress can be salvaged," she told him.

"I'll let them soak, then, before everything smells of wet earth and sour milk."

He'd have to clean the bathroom tomorrow too, he reasoned, and ask Tim to pick up some groceries as he came back from school. They'd all have to pull a little more than their usual weight with Shelagh in no fit state to walk, at least not for a little while.

He picked the dirty garments from the floor to put them in the sink.

Something fell on the bathroom tiles with a soft, metallic clink. Patrick grunted as he squatted, hand closing on something small and cool.

"That looks like the one Angela got today," he murmured, rolling the silver charm between the folds of his palm. The little bell chimed merrily.

A sudden gust of wind howled around the house, carrying the sound of someone giggling. A shiver ran along his vertebrae. "Just the wind, "Patrick told himself. He dumped the dress and slip in the sink, trying not to look over his shoulder as he filled it with water. The back of his neck prickled, as if something was watching him.

He put the charm in his pocket.

Should he tell Angela he had found it? Should he tell Shelagh it had come from her clothes?

Patrick shook his head. No, he'd give it to his daughter in a few days, and claim it was a new one.

After all, there were only so many fairy-related adventures one family could go through in one day.

 **If you guys liked the vibe of this story, maybe check out some of my** **fairy tale retellings** **!**


End file.
